Monday, July 27, 2015

Earlier this summer R and I celebrated the 10-year anniversary of when we first met. I was at the end of my figure-eight loop around Italy—a trip I set out on solo in the month between graduating from university and beginning the first job of my professional career.

After landing in Rome nearly 4 weeks prior, and traveling from there to Cortona, San Gimignano, Siena, Assisi, the Cinque Terre, Milan, Venice, Florence, Naples, Sorrento, Capri, and Positano, I finally landed in Sicily, having taken an overnight train from Salerno where I was stuck sitting on my suitcase near the bathrooms until a Sicilian mama invited me to share her berth with her and her 4 children.

We didn't understand each other at all, but she made her children scooch over so I could lay down and sleep for a few hours and when I awoke she handed me the most potent Sicilian blood orange I had ever had (it might have been my first). After thanking her and cleaning myself up, I went up on board to witness the crossing of the train over the Strait of Messina. Not too long after that, we chugged into Giardini-Naxos, the station at the base of the hill upon which Taormina perches.

Turns out the inn I had found in my guidebook (this was back when we still used them) and had booked from Sorrento in my absurd attempt at speaking Italian was right across the street from a boutique run by two brothers who had inherited it from their father. Being filled as it was with Italian leather goods, accessories and the most beautiful shoes I had ever seen, of course I had noticed it while taking walks around the town.

I had also noticed a man standing in the window one day—our eyes caught and it was the oddest sensation, almost dejà vu. That eerie sense of familiarity that puts you at ease while at the same time heightening all of your senses.

The next day I walked into the store under the ruse of shoe shopping (a ruse because my poor, American-width feet battered from touring around Italy in flip flops—such a bad idea—would have never fit into elegant Italian shoes) and managed to ask for my size in broken Italian. He, the older of the brothers, the one who had seen me the day before, excitedly responded in rapid Italian.

Having studied Spanish for 7 years in school—though being American public school and university language courses, I wasn't anywhere close to being fluent—I could make out a bit of what he was saying, but not enough that I didn't immediately begin spluttering and begged him to switch to English.

As he had grown up in a trendy and touristy beach resort town with parents that spoke English (in addition to all of their other languages), he could (luckily and mercifully) manage a decent amount of my native language, so we were able to chat. I left the store without shoes, but with a recommendation for where to eat dinner that night.

On the walk back to the inn after dinner I passed his store again, but this time he was standing outside checking on his motorcycle. Something happened in that moment that spurred my exceedingly shy, introverted self to pose a question to him about said motorcycle—and thus began our relationship across the Atlantic.

One innocuous question and after 4 years of "dating" with an ocean between us he moved from Sicily to New York and we were married (for the first time) at the base of the mountains in Virginia, and the second time, just down the street from where we met in Sicily (where his brother, an elected official of the town, officiated our civil ceremony).

And now, ready for another adventure with each other, our family of two will become a family of three by the end of this year—just in time for our sixth wedding anniversary.

All because I mustered up the courage to ask him a question.

And because he began his answer with a smile.

P.S. This is why I've been a little quiet here lately—it was hard to post without revealing our little secret (plus I had a rough first trimester), but my hands haven't been idle—the baby's layette is off to a good start!

P.P.S. Don't be swayed by the colors—we chose not to find out whether we're having a winter baby boy or a winter baby girl (and we think that all of these work for either).

P.P.P.S. I actually have a pretty good idea of what we can do with these.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Every year as we slip into summer (even a Swedish summer), I'm less and less likely to pull my knitting out of its basket after dinner. There's just something about bright nights and warmer weather that aren't conducive to a lap full of yarn.

But this year the urge to do something artistic with my hands besides knitting wouldn't simmer down. And while over the last few months I've had an insane desire to sew proper things (motivated in part by this adorable website I came across), the investment and learning curve required aren't something I'm quite ready to take on just yet (though rest assured I'm bookmarking away for when I am).

Plus, even though we now have the space to set up a little sewing corner, I still wanted something more lightweight and portable to keep me busy.

So when I walked into a local bookstore while running errands and came across a few shelves filled with books of beautiful sketches collected within the "adult coloring books" section I knew I had to have one.

I picked up a pack of Faber-Castell coloring pencils to go with my new book and hightailed it home to try it out. Turns out I'm not the only adult into coloring—it's apparently the new thing, as a Google search reveals that they're topping bestseller lists as people turn to them for an analog and meditative activity in the face of numerous screens. All things that knitting does for me (in cooler weather, of course), although I'm not sure what I'll do with these results aside from collect them on our bookshelf.

A few pages in and I think I'm hooked—I've even seen R eyeing my pencils, so perhaps I'll have a masterpiece of his to share soon.

Monday, July 20, 2015

A few days after I returned from Skåne, my mom arrived in Stockholm for her first visit to Scandinavia. Her trip coincided with a brief (read: two day) heat wave, so for her first weekend in town she really got to see the city at dressed in its summery finest.

My in-laws picked me up and we headed to Arlanda to meet my mom's flight and since she bounced out of customs full of energy, despite her overnight flight after a full day of work, we took her on a car tour of the main parts of the city so she could see it in all its late afternoon, waterfront beauty.

Once we were home, and after a little cocktail hour on the balcony, we settled ourselves around the table when R arrived home from work bearing the quintessential Swedish summer meal: a smörgåstårta (a sandwich cake).

It sounds a little weird in English, but just ignore the oddly-phrased translation and you can enjoy this fresh, light, savory, herbaceous and lemony treat, which is essentially a huge sandwich with lots of fillings that resemble frosting.

It's concocted with several layers of white or light rye bread interspersed with layers of egg, mayonnaise, and (in my favorite rendition) shrimp, cucumber, caviar and smoked salmon, topped off with lemon and dill. I hadn't had it in so long, so I happily dug in as soon as we were seated and for her first tango with Swedish food, my mom did, too.

We didn't stay up too late that first night since the next morning we had a date with our favorite Stromma boat line for a cruise out to Artipelag, a museum built in a forest out in the archipelago. My mom and I hopped on the subway and headed into the city to Nybrokajen where the boat was docked (while R hopped on his motorcycle and left much after us, naturally).

Once we docked we realized there was no way we could spend our two hours on land in a museum when it was such a gorgeous day outside, so we followed the charming wooden path through the licorice-scented woods up to the museum perched on a little hill, where it enjoys a pretty view over the water.

Rather than go inside (apart from marveling at the seriously amazing granite and bamboo wood (I'm assuming) bathrooms) and a loop through the gift shop, we stayed in the typically Nordic-style building (white walls, lots of natural materials and soft lights) just long enough to order lunch before carrying it outside and seating ourselves in the outdoor dining area for a long leisurely lunch.

After more Swedish deliciousness we waddled back down to the pier, taking a little stroll through the woods along the way, and then sailed back to Stockholm.

My in-laws met us at the port and we scooted over to Drottningholm for an afternoon fika in the late afternoon sunlight. Once our yawns got the best of us (sea air will do that to you) we headed home, having had a lovely second Fourth of July in Stockholm.

The next day we took the tvärbana (light rail) to Hammarby Sjöstad where we introduced mom to the deliciousness of Bröd och Salt (Bread and Salt), which is in our opinion, the city's best bakery.

Their mandelbullar (almond buns), kardemummalängd (cardamom pastries in long form), and traditional kanelbullar(cinnamon buns) are seriously, unbelievably good. Their secret is a layer of almond paste in EVERYTHING, which makes their baked goods more delectable than anyone else's in the city.

So, we hopped off the train, stocked up at Bröd och Salt, and then took mom for a walk around our first stomping grounds in Stockholm, showing her our apartment, grocery store, the paths we cycled and walked on, the nature reserve, and then down to the water to bask in the gorgeous summer day and indulge in our spiced pastries.

Like Swedish food, she immediately fell in love with Hammarby Sjöstad and encouraged us to move back there. If only we could—the real estate is super pricey given the newness, eco-ness, and general amazingness of the neighborhood, but we'd love it if we could live there again.

(Sigh.)

After our walk and fika we headed to my in-laws' for a proper Swedish Midsummer feast that they had kindly prepared to introduce my mom to the abundance and deliciousness of Swedish holiday food. She especially enjoyed the sill, the västerbottenpaj (a quiche made with Västerbotten cheese, which comes from the same-named region) and the tradition of snaps, singing, and toasting throughout the meal.

Then for her last night, we had my in-laws over for a Goan feast prepared by my mom, who had done a bit of cooking before boarding her flight from NYC to Stockholm, and had arrived with frozen gallon-size bags of some of our favorite dishes—the rest were made in our kitchen.

We started off with a homemade medley of her samosas with mint chutney, crisped pita-style bread, basmati rice, a vinegary mango-chili-red onion salad, sorpateland feijoada. And while Goan cuisine has some delectable desserts, the only proper way to end that meal was with mango sorbet.

The dinner was the perfect way to end her trip, where we introduced her to the wonder of Sweden and she reminded us of one of the things we miss most about having left New York (and I don't just mean her cooking).

Saturday, July 11, 2015

When a friend from NYC was transferred to Sweden for work a few months ago, two of our other friends in NYC decided it was time for them to fly over and visit. We came up with the idea of doing a roadtrip to the southern part of the country for a beach vacation at the end of June.

Our final destination was determined by AirBnB when we found the most charming of cottages in Båstad, a small (but well-renowned) town on the southwestern coast of Sweden in Skåne County, that wasavailable for the days we had free. Look at the beautiful view from its deck and windows and how cozy its minimalism is:

The other girls flew into Göteborg, so I took the 3'ish hour train ride down and they met me at the station in our rental car and we set out for Skåne. It was an easy (and pretty) two-hour drive, but we stopped about 30 minutes out in Halmstad for dinner before driving up the hill to the cottage.

We spent our first night catching up and playing games by candlelight (how had I never played Cards Against Humanity and Heads Up before?!) before collapsing into bed many, many hours past my bedtime. That, combined with me catching the most absurd of colds the day before I left, meant I was red-eyed, sleepy, congested, and cough-y when I woke up just a few hours after going to bed, feeling ravenous. Luckily (well less lucky for her given my breathing issues) I was sharing a room with the driver (we rented a manual transmission) and she was up, too, so we headed into town for breakfast supplies and put out a Swedish spread for the others.

Once we were all up and had coffee and breakfast in our systems the girls began to understand exactly what a "Swedish Summer" entails, mainly: rain. So we spent our first full day in Båstad lounging around, reading, chatting, and futzing about online before the sun decided to grace us with its presence in the late afternoon. We jumped up to take advantage of the break in the clouds and raced out for a little sightseeing.

We drove up into the hills behind Båstad for a late lunch at Cafe Utsikten, where the rain started pouring down again so we huddled over our meals to wait it out before we drove down into town and a bit past the main drag to Solbackens Wåffelbruk, a Swedish waffle house (and we're not talking the IHOP here), for dessert.

By then the sun was out and shining strong so drove into town and parked by the beach for a walk along the shore and down to the marina.

On our walk we noticed a lovely little building built out at the end of a pier across from Hotel Skansen. The structure is the hotel's kallbadhuset (cold bath house), meaning, the type of spa structure where you indulge in the hot sauna and tepid outdoor jacuzzi before...plunging into the ocean.

(Viking blood and all.)

We made reservations for the next day, but given my weakened immune system and fever that was coming and going while I tried to breathe solely through my mouth given my nasal situation, I decided it perhaps wasn't the best idea for me to put my body through those extremes. Being a spa though, the "relaxation room" had a gorgeous view and a fireplace so I settled in with tea and my knitting there while the girls did their rounds.

The day after that we decided to brave the rain and the decidedly non-summer weather (low 50's, windy, and the aforementioned rain) and ignore our lack of gloves, hats, and boots to set out on a drive to see more of Skåne's coastline.

Heading further south we toured around the two little peninsulas directly south of Båstad (and edging right up to Denmark), winding along sweet Swedish lanes and passing fields and fields filled with wheat (?).

Skåne is known as the "breast basket" of Sweden, so while the countryside around Stockholm is filled with horse farms and cow pastures, that around Skåne is filled with grain (and cows and sheep). There was something wildly mesmerizing about the green stalks blowing in the breeze as we looped along the wide roads and around farms towards the beaches in Hovs Hallar and Mölle.

We had mapped out a meandering route that would take us to the Kullaberg Nature Reserve where a lighthouse stands—as well as Kullens fyr, a cafè that boasted a famous carrot cake. While we had hoped for a sunny day, the wind-whipped waves and gray light actually made the landscape even more beautiful and stunning. We walked along the cliffs for as long as we could stand it before seeking refuge and hot coffee (and cake) in the cafè.

On our last morning in Båstad we packed up, cleared out our AirBnb and drove into town, parking and walking around a bit to enjoy the last bit of southern Sweden's adorable architecture. There's something about the buildings and the endearing and lovely houses that are so fairytale'ish and sweet. It's more dear than the stoic and stately architecture in and around Stockholm.

After leaving town we headed north to Stockholm. The drive is just over 5 hours so we planned to stop in Jönköping, a sizeable town on the southern-most point of Lake Vättern, for lunch. The drive there was about 2.5 hours so it made for a perfect mid-way point.

Plus, the sun had popped out and we plopped ourselves on a canal to soak it in over a tasty lunch before taking a walk along the lakefront and stuffing ourselves in the car again.

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

In case anyone besides me has been keeping track, the promised 730 days (i.e., two years) maximum wait time for my approved Italian citizenship request to be processed has just passed and I still remain the citizen of solely one (great) nation. I probably shouldn't be quite so shocked, but our case officer in NYC just seemed so proud of and confident in the Italian law that limits the wait time that I put complete faith in her pronouncement.

But given how things have gonein my journey with the Italian government thus far (and my general experience with Italian bureaucracy after meeting R 10 years ago this month (!)), I really should have known better, because in Italy, ci vuole sempre pazienza (patience is most definitely a required virtue).

And truly, there's really no immediate need for me to have E.U. citizenship (thank goodness), since the (mostly) efficient Swedes already granted me permanent residency in Sweden (and thus the E.U.), meaning that apart from national- and E.U.-level voting, I have the right to essentially all the other benefits of citizenship already.

(It's really just all about me catching up with R, who now, thanks to being born into two and marrying into onecitizenship, has THREE passports that he can flash around.)

And if Italy keeps this up, I have a Plan B, since in just-under-two years I'll be eligible for Swedish citizenship and I'm pretty sure it'll all be processed online, instantaneously.

Although since this amazing ride that I never could have imagined would be my life when I was a little girl in Virginia began exactly 10 years ago on a street in Sicily, I'd really love for the Italian citizenship to come through first. It's ever so much more poetic. And just.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

I'm not quite sure how it's possible, but somehow we'd already been living in Stockholm for more than a year and I'd never made it out to one of the city's most famous (if not the most famous) lookout point. Just inland from the northern border of Södermalm, and up a steep, but not too steep, street lies Monteliusvägen, a quarter-mile pathway that curves along the hill and offers the most spectacular views of the city.

I suppose it's just that I don't spend much time in Södermalm (also known as the Brooklyn of Stockholm). Apart from bicycling along its eastern edge on the way to school from Hammarby Sjöstad last summer and fall, and actually buying said bicycle from a shop there, we just hadn't had many reasons to meander about the island's very charming streets.

But since I was meeting a friend in Södermalm for lunch earlier this week (at La Neta, a fast food-style Mexican eatery that was good, but certainly no Fonda) and had the afternoon free afterward, I figured it was time to see for myself.

I started heading uphill (along the way seeing many a familiar setting from the TV show Welcome to Sweden) and came across a charming set of signs pointing me along my merry way before I finally made it onto the pathway and saw the long-awaited view peeking out from amidst all the greenery and lilac bushes.

Once I rounded the bend I saw that I wasn't the only one who fancied a beautiful view on a gorgeous Swedish summer day. People reading, couples and friends lingering over coffee, families with their lunches spread out around them on benches and grassy areas alongside the path, and school groups with painting and drawing supplies were there, too.

And who can blame them? If I lived or worked that close to Monteliusvägen, I'm sure I'd be there every sunny day, too.

(Although now that I know how lovely and peaceful it is, I've no doubt that I'll find excuses to wind my way back up—soon, and frequently.)

(A bit of an overload on the picture front, but choosing just one—or two—to share proved entirely too hard.)